The Talented Volney Rain
by Gavin Gunhold
Summary: Ten Ysandir lived, but eleven Ysandir died. This is not their story. Warning: slash and het pairings.
1. The other kind of proposal

This part happens right before unmarried couple (and some time after Fen's Portrait: Volney Rain, which is where this interpretation of Volney originates). Neal is about seven, making it six years after Jon's coronation.

o-o-o-o

o-o-o-o

The Talented Volney Rain, Part I

o-o-o-o

Volney is nervous, terrified to the very core of his being for the first time since he won the regard of both of his monarchs and secured a more or less permanent spot as court artist. He's done something so wonderful, so absolutely perfect and necessary that it is bound to be misunderstood, bound to be hated. The best, most honest work of art he's ever made, ever will make, is done, signed, sitting in his studio and ready to be framed and hung, yet it is never going to make it to a wall because Volney was not able to resist (glorifying) the femme fatale of Tortall. The beautiful, treacherous, lonely, intelligent woman imprisoned high in her tower above the world by the man she'd tried to destroy – incidentally, the same man who will (can, he amends) destroy Volney's career so easily it isn't even worth noting. Volney has (signed a death warrant) made a painting of Delia of Eldorne who was Jonathon of Conté's one-time lover and would-be assassin, and Jon is coming to see it, and he is going to _see,_ and then it will be all over. And if he doesn't see, then Volney is once again going to be back where he started: completely disillusioned with his patrons and wondering why he is wasting his time making such significant works for them. Especially since he's tried to teach Jon about art, himself.

o-o-o-o

Several weeks earlier…

o-o-o-o

Every once in a while, when Jon or Thayet orders it done, Volney gets to paint great epic things of the Lioness and Goldenlake the Giantkiller, and other great heroes-of-the-war(s). Usually, though, he spends day in, day out making women more beautiful, men more manly and adored family pets more beautiful/heroic/cherished than they have ever been, immortalizing them in all their false glory so that during social gatherings, so-and-so can turn to their guests and say, "Oh, yes, we had that fellow from court paint us a picture. Isn't he _gifted_?" Which is worth a laugh, and then they can spread along his prices and whatever bits of nasty court gossip are circulating about him at the time and have a good time shocking each other with scandalous half-truths and lies. Volney is nothing if not good at what he does, and while he usually just tells himself it's for the money, which it is (the right kind of scandal is, after all, good for business), the whole situation leaves him feeling more than slightly cynical. He became an artist because he believed there were other ways than fighting to make a point, but right now he's stagnating; on a plateau. He's good enough to do what he's doing for the rest of his life without getting any better than he is now.

Actually, Volney likes his other kind of commission better; the ones where the men and women come to him when he's all alone and dart furtive looks about, and speak in euphemisms and riddles in embarrassed undertones until he understands how many bodies, and which ones, and often which positions. His customers pay him well for these, tipping him for his silence, so Volney can go and spend a night picking up models from the lower city, enjoying their company on his clientele's charity and confined artistically only by the need to make his drawings sexualized, and not beautifully idealized.

But for now, Volney's mostly just frustrated and annoyed with himself and his work, and wants something more. He's not even sure what the something is, and he thinks he might look for it forever without finding it. This makes him short with the nobles (and the servants, and the other entertainers), so he withdraws himself from their company whenever possible.

One noble is annoyingly persistent and always manages to catch Volney whenever he looks like he might have a headache, and so worries about him accordingly. This is young Nealan of Queenscove, the Healer's boy.

Neal has been visiting him in his (very beautiful, well-lit, airy, expensive) studio for a couple of years now. He once found a couple of scraps detailing landscapes, buildings and current events, and asked to keep them. Although Neal offered to pay, Volney gave them away for free and now Neal stops by every once in a while. Volney even keeps things on hand for him that he thinks Neal will like. It is, after all, a refreshing break from his portraiture, and he would have done the sketches anyways.

Lately, though, Neal is a becoming a nuisance – very talkative and constantly telling him about the signs of depression (which Volney does _not _have, thank you very much), and offering medications and relief from the symptoms. To shut him up, Volney asks to do his portrait (for which Neal must be very, _very_ still and _not_ speak). It doesn't work for very long though, and by the end of the sketch, Neal is ruminating about knighthood, about which he has many romantic and idealistic views that will eventually be shattered. He is young, so Volney forgives him.

One such idea is that knights should have fabulous adventures, not sit around and run things. They should go and fight monsters and rescue ladies from towers.

This puts Volney on edge, because while he would much rather be _painting_ these kinds of knights and this kind of story, in reality there's really only one lady in Tortall who is locked in a tower. He doesn't want to be accused of treason if anyone should hear him talking about her. Not that the King or Queen are _that_ sort of ruler, but Volney has had dealings with other sovereigns before, and it's nice to and keep all your fingers. And your head. He changes the subject back to the headaches and lets Neal do something to his head with his Gift that makes him feel infinitely better (Neal can tell this even without Volney's thanks). He sends the silly, beaming child on his way with some cartoons of the new temple being built, and the court musicians entertaining at dinner. And then calls Neal back again because he forgot that he was going to turn the one of blonde Inory, the delectable viol player, into a painting. Neal looks upset – apparently that was his favourite. As he gives it up, his face crumples into resignation. Feeling harassed, Volney tells Neal he can keep the drawing once it's been painted. It would have sold for a good price to a paying customer, but Volney supposes he can draw another, later. He feels his headache coming back and reminds himself that he is building a clientele for the future and that at least Neal has good taste.

Volney thinks about it later, though – ladies trapped in towers. There are many stories and ballads but not so many paintings on this subject matter, and Volney can see all sorts of points of metaphorical interest. Especially since ladies are now tough, war-hardened knights, and it is the delicate but treacherous court women who are kept under lock and key, and one is hardly likely to rescue the other. There is so much untapped potential. And then he thinks that their majesties will never let him paint the woman who nearly killed them and pushes it out of his mind.

o-o-o-o

He is doing a sitting of a dog that day. A beloved, yappy little family pet that will not stay still long enough for Volney to get a decent sketch. The little furball's owners won't stop feeding it pasties, and cooing at it in baby-language and _laughing, _and there are scores of children running around everywhere. He counts six, sometimes nine, and thinks there must be twins or triplets among them somewhere, or possibly it is a party, or a madhouse.

By the time he leaves, Volney's headache is back full swing and he is bound and determined to get permission to paint Delia of Eldorne, no matter what the cost.

o-o-o-o

He decides to at least go in prepared. He inserts himself back into the public frenzy, talks to the other artists and artisans over drinks until they are sick of him, then finds his friends in the Rogue and begins to get an idea of how it will work. He manages to attain a conversation with the Provost to talk about jails, and to corner Numair about magic, pulling him out of one academic stupor and into another. And then he dresses startlingly well and goes to request an audience with one or the other of their Majesties; he doesn't know quite who to hope for.

It turns out to be Jon, alone in his chambers, dipping bread elegantly into his soup for lunch while sorting through a short stack of papers, and Volney is suddenly glad that he doesn't have to face Thayet's piercing stare just yet, as really, all this is about yet another of Jon's women. He would much rather tell her the 'good news' once he has Jon's support.

Jon is eyeing him as Volney enters and bows. He takes another bite and sits back, motioning with his hand for Volney to take a seat in one of the heavily embroidered chairs across from him. Jon's hand is holding a white linen napkin, and after Jon licks his lips, hand and napkin find their way up to pat dry Jon's blue-black beard. Volney realizes he's staring, but can't look away. He wishes he could put an ounce of the power Jon carries around with him into his paintings. He also wishes that he could paint Jon again sometime, but thinks that Thayet is unlikely to agree.

The lips move, and Jon is speaking: "Volney Rain. I haven't seen you in some time." The King is no wordsmith – his speech is plain – but somehow he can rouse his subjects to follow him unto death. Volney looks up and Jon has a little knowing smile on his face. To deflect his embarrassment, Volney lays out his idea, trying not to waste Jon's time with pleasantries. He lets the King fill in the details as though it were actually his plan, not Volney's.

In short, Volney will make drawings or paintings (or whatever will work best) of prisoners to update the Provost's records (the Rogue will probably be annoyed at him, but it shouldn't affect them too much if they don't get caught doing what they do). He will also try an experimental security system using the pictures as a focus to find escaped prisoners; Numair assures him the magic will work in theory.

Jon's finished his lunch by the end. He looks interested, especially about the new piece of magic, but Volney knows the unconvinced, "What's in it for you?" part is coming. And it does.

Volney tries to throw him off subject: "What, do I need another reason besides doing my duty to the Crown, and getting to take a break from painting orgies and hyperactive little dogs with ribbons tied around their ears?"

"Yes, besides that", Jon laughs, waiting (not taking the bait).

Volney takes a minute to collect his thoughts. "I am very interested", he begins, "in making a body of work about people who have fallen through the cracks. I have some, but not much experience with such people" (he backtracks hurriedly as Jon just _looks_ at him) "mostly in other countries, where judicial systems are much harsher and there are unfair imprisonments and sentences for everyone from beggars to nobles…", here, Volney trails off and blinks. "… But in the case of most prisoners here, the public knows why they've been convicted and feel safer for it. Which means that rather a lot of inmates are either badly educated, crazy, or chose of their own will to live their lives the way they did. While that is intriguing in and of itself, I can finally paint subjects that I won't have to turn into demi-gods. And because it will be commissioned, I won't have to fit it in on my own time, so I can give it my complete attention." For the sake of the moment, Volney allows himself to light up with fanaticism: "I will give you a collection of work that is so far ahead of its time, Tortallans will speak of it for centuries."

Jon thinks it over. Volney waits, his glow fading. And finally Jon says "Alright…."

Volney jumps in again. "There is one more thing, actually."

Jon gestures him onwards, rolling his eyes.

"In the matter of the trials with the focus, might I suggest that for a test subject we use Delia of Eldorne? It would be a little cleaner and brighter in a tower than a dungeon, and the lady would be very unlikely to try and run away". Volney holds his breath.

Jon considers him. And then chuckles a little menacingly and says, "By all means. I'll tell her she should expect you, myself."

Volney wonders what that's all about. "I would actually like to do a large painting of the lady. In addition to the better working conditions in the tower, I had a conversation about women imprisoned in towers with one of the children running around the palace that struck a chord with me."

"Ah. By any chance would that have been Nealan of Queenscove?" Jon queries casually.

Volney is startled. "Well, yes, actually. How did you…?"

"He comes by your studio often, doesn't he. Do you talk much?" The tone is light, but Jon is too interested in the answer.

"He talks about everything. I can barely get him to stop." Volney wonders where this is going. "I usually just save drawings for him – doodles of the castle and sometimes people."

"Are they very accurate?" Jon wants to know. He is giving away nothing.

"I suppose some of them could be, but usually the ones I work up are the ones I keep to make into paintings. Most of them are too sketchy - you'd have to know the people or the place before you could see a resemblance." _What is Neal doing with the pictures?_

Eventually the King sighs and nods. "It should be all right", he mutters. He turns to Volney and says, formally: "You have my permission to do as you like concerning Delia of Eldorne."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Volney nods, rising from his chair to stand when Jon does.

"You know," Jon smiles, "it's a good thing you're not married." Volney raises his eyebrows. "It would take a very special woman to stand by and watch her husband act like a schoolboy with a crush whenever he talks about his work."

Jon is stepping closer slowly and Volney, already flushed, swallows. Volney is usually so collected, but lately his depression (which he has finally decided to acknowledge, at least to himself) and his current surge of interest in his work have left him off balance. He wants, needs, for this to go well and it's turning him into an utter fool. "Speaking of wives," Volney finds his voice, "how is yours? If she's around, I should pay my respects. I haven't seen her in a while."

"And you won't, today." Another step. "She's off intimidating her Rider groups." Jon reaches up and rests an open hand on Volney's shoulder. Jon has a somewhat wistful expression, and Volney knows he is feeling a little trapped. It makes him seem human. As he reaches up to run his fingers over Jon's lips and Jon's hand trails down his chest, Volney thinks that the cost of his request is going to be more than worth it. So long as, no matter what she suspects, Thayet never finds out.

o-o-o-o

o-o-o-o

Thanks be to Imo, my fearless beta. Through the swampy mire of incoherency and run-ons did she tirelessly wade. And if you haven't already, go read her fics (pen name, sarcastic rabbit), because they -are- the sweet, sweet love of villainy and because shameless plugs are flying in all directions. It's sort of like dodgeball.

Sally


	2. Something in the water

If you want chronology, it's in my profile!

o-o-o-o

The Talented Volney Rain, Part II

o-o-o-o

o-o-o-o

Volney has tried not to foster too many expectations about Delia of Eldorne, but he must have held on to some, because she is defying them all.

o-o-o-o

About halfway up the long spiral staircase curling up the insides of the tower (between a burly man-at-arms and a pageboy Volney snagged to carry up an easel), Volney's legs start to cramp.

He is carrying a paint box, a large sheaf of papers, and various other supplies strapped to various parts of his body, and he is thinking that if nothing else, he is going to be in formidable shape by the time this painting is done. It's either this or his inevitable death from exhaustion. The guard is stomping steadily upwards, but when Volney looks back, he can see that the pageboy, at least, is suffering with him. It makes Volney feel a little better.

By the time they make it to a double door (wood with lots of curling cast-iron work) at the top of the tower, however, Volney is feeling slightly guilty and hands over a big tip. The pageboy is too tired to be grateful, and merely sighs and trudges off down the stairs.

This is a pity because he misses the guard's display of official bluster.

The man's hulking body shields the lock at his hands from view, and he turns and stares over his hunched shoulder. His eyebrows are raised so high it is comical and he jerks his head meaningfully in Volney's direction. Volney backs up, which must be the right thing to do when the guard gives an indecipherable grunt and glances back down at his hands. Volney hasn't moved from his spot against the wall when the guard looks suspiciously back over his shoulder to check again. Volney smiles encouragingly, and the guard grunts again – less pleased – and leans in to whisper something at the door. He turns the key he's not so subtly put in the lock and pushes the doors open a crack, grudgingly moving away.

Volney realizes that the guard's moment of inspired door-opening has ended, and reaches down to pick up a bag he's left resting on the floor. "Thank you." Volney says. (No response.) "I might be a while…. Should I come and get you when I'm finished for the day?" (Baleful eyeing with lowered eyebrows.) "Oh…. I see…." (Volney doesn't – not at all.) As he is motioned forward through the doors, Volney is the recipient of some sullen glaring. Especially when he has to put down his supplies and make an extra trip to bring in the easel.

The doors close behind him with a solid thudding clang and Volney can hear the key turn in the lock. Just about on the verge of laughter, he is now feeling decidedly odd. He has just (been locked in) walked into a woman's chambers unannounced, which he has not done in a while, and certainly not ever to a woman he has never met before. He swipes his eyes across the small sitting room, taking in the wealth of the furnishings and delicate taste, and the greeting he is about to call dies on his lips; Delia of Eldorne is standing to his far right, outlined from behind by the sunlight entering through a narrow window. Volney has an impression of a petite woman with a slender figure and a pretty face.

"You must be Volney Rain", Delia speaks. Her voice is low and melodious, and Volney wonders if she isn't pitching it that way on purpose.

"Milady", he says hastily as she closes the distance between them. "I must apologize for the abruptness of my…."

"I am used to it by now", she cuts him off. "It's a side effect of being guarded by apes." Now that she's closer, he can see that she is, in fact, quite beautiful. She is plainly and modestly dressed in a well-fitted, high-necked bottle-green gown that matches her eyes and sets off her artfully painted red lips. It surprises him, vaguely, that she is so well kept up, but he supposes that it wasn't too long ago that she had attracted the attention of both Jon and his cousin. "I was already annoyed at you anyways", she carries on, not letting Volney speak. "Only mildly, though. I am far more annoyed at Jonathan. I thought you might like to be warned that I am going to use you to get back at him." She smiles pleasantly, at odds with her words.

Volney is floored by Delia's brand of honesty. "…I see", he says (he doesn't, and is beginning to feel that he should have stayed in bed this morning). "I'm not entirely sure what's been done to offend you, but I assure you there's been no deliberate ill will."

"I thought that might have been the case, which is why I'm only mildly annoyed at you." Delia purses her red lips with displeasure. "Because of you, however, for an extended period of time I am going to have to put up with not only His Royal Priggishness, but some fusty academic mages" (Volney thinks about Numair and chortles in his head), "and a huge number of guards. I can only _hope_ the latter will be more intelligent than my current guards. The magic is experimental and has so many holes in it that it will be useless except in extremely specialized cases" (he is a little put out – his idea wasn't _that_ bad). "And on top of that, I will have to experience a false sense of freedom every time I step out that door", Delia nods at the entrance through which he came. "While I can forgive you for not thinking through your actions, _Jonathan_",she spits, "knew exactly what he was doing" (Volney remembers Jon laughing about getting to tell Delia the 'news' and knows she is right). "I will do whatever I can to make his life as insufferable as mine during this time", Delia finishes.

Volney feels somewhat guilty. From her point of view, his plan does sound appallingly cruel, although he understands Jon's actions, too. "I suppose that's… fair. And I find myself apologizing to you once again." (she inclines her head graciously). "…May I ask how you intend to exact your revenge, milady?"

Delia looks at him levelly. "You may," she says, amused, "but you are unlikely to get a very revealing answer." She pauses. "Volney… May I call you Volney?" (he assumes Jon gave her his name and nods his assent), "and you may call me Delia."

She holds out her arm and her hand appears from under the lace around the edge of her long sleeves. He takes her extended hand in his own, brushing his lips across the back of her knuckles, but when he straightens again, Delia holds on a little longer than necessary. She smiles, and then the moment Volney thinks they were having is over, and Delia is discussing where he would like to set up his things, and how he would like her to pose. She is delightful from here on: capable and funny, on occasion even making self-deprecating remarks about her prisoner-status.

She also turns out to be a terrific model; one of the best that Volney has worked with.

Delia is aware of her body, strong, and well-balanced enough to hold more difficult poses (dancing is part of a court woman's upbringing, she says, and she still practices the steps to give herself something to do). She warns him when she needs to move before she actually does so he can finish up the section he's working on. And while she is knowledgeable about painting, and understands what will work well for him within the artistic conventions of the time (he has no idea how she has kept up, having been jailed for six years, but supposes they haven't changed all _that _much, except that _he_ is more or less Tortallan convention now), Delia is also creative, having many of her own ideas about how she should be posed.

There is no question of her beauty (of the classic sort whereas Thayet's is more exotic, Volney can't help comparing), which means that the idealizing of his subject that would ordinarily occupy his attention is unnecessary. Neither does she have anywhere else to be, so Volney doesn't get the sense of dreadful hurry he has when sketching Jon, say, or Thayet, or just about anyone else he knows.

Somehow managing not to move more than necessary, Delia is entertaining and witty, providing stories of people she knew in court that Volney now knows. Some things he's heard already, but he listens to them again. Delia is also unbelievably seductive. With minimal movement, she seems to exude sex appeal across the space between them, and Volney is very pleased at how it comes across in his work. It's her voice, Volney thinks, and he finds that perhaps he is attracted to her luscious, red mouth after all.

Volney has always (been obsessed) had an embarrassing fixation with Jon's mouth, for reasons he can't quite explain. Delia's, however, did not originally appeal to him. It was so red; so obvious and carefully painted, that he overlooked it at first, finding himself looking far more deeply into her eyes. Apart from being a startling shade of emerald, they seem the only honest thing about her. Both fierce and passionate, they hold all the intelligence and energy within her, while her lips are part of the thick swath of court manners and upbringing that accompany them.

Volney can't tell how much of what comes out of those lips is true.

Delia can never seem to give him a straight answer about anything personal; she puts on an incredibly intricate act, concealing herself in layers and layers of lies wrapped in half-truths. It is unbelievably fascinating, but also terrifying and makes Volney aware that he is completely out of his depth.

Every once in a while, Delia says or does something to give Volney the impression of insanity. Each time, he believes that it is for real; that she has gone mad in her isolation, until he looks closely and sees Delia laughing at him, teasing him for being so slow to catch on. He laughs, but on the inside, Volney wonders if this is her way of acclimating him to her so that if Delia actually_ does_ do something crazy, he can pass it off as another joke.

With her green eyes, her dress molded like a second skin, the way she seems to feed off his energy and the hypnotic quality of her voice, Delia reminds him of nothing so much as a cold-blooded reptile – a boa constrictor, perhaps. Volney saw one, once, in Carthak; watched it crush its meal bone by bone in its powerful coils and then unhinge its jaw and swallow its meal whole (which is a little too much visual imagery for Volney right now).

Before he can think of a safe way to ask about her lies, she corners him about his truths. As she has noticed, he doesn't particularly lie so much as deflect questions, or let his answers dissolve into vagueness.

In a few short questions, she decides that he is a truth-seeking idealist with a mission, which he supposes is pretty accurate, if not horrifyingly revealing. "How quaint!" she exclaims. "You must get along so well here in the company of all these chivalrous knights."

Volney is feeling very transparent and tries to shift the attention to her. He wants to know how she _does_ that.

"How I do what? Read you like an open book?" she teases, her eyes dancing. "I'm well enough at it, I suppose, but Roger was the best. He understood the desires of men and women simply by looking at them, and he would play them however he liked. It came to him as naturally as breathing." Her eyes drift to some distant point as she remembers. "I learned everything from him."

There is a silence and Volney feels like he is intruding. He wonders… about Delia and Jon and Roger, and feels incredibly lonely and left out.

"In any case," Delia focuses on his face again, "you don't get better at it unless you practice." Volney thinks he knows what's coming, and is correct when Delia's lips quirk and she says, "Try me – tell me about my childhood."

Volney sighs. "I'm really not very good at this sort of …" Delia raises her eyebrows at him. "No" is obviously not an answer. Volney thinks, _you asked for it_.

"I suspect", he says gravely, "that before you traumatized boys with your nymphomaniac tendencies, you were the kind of child who tortured small animals."

Delia stares at him wide-eyed until he (can't _believe_ he just _said_ that!) feels like he might have overstepped his bounds, and starts to apologize, but she is laughing. She has a wonderful laugh. "You have a long way to go before you find Truth, Volney, but you are equally bad at fabricating", she laughs again, shaking her head.

"Thank you, I think", Volney replies, voice wry. He smiles with her.

Delia's the kind of person Volney admires; the kind that he affects in order to protect himself. Charming, witty, confident, sexually alluring, with a cynical face to the world. It occurs to him that Roger of Conté was probably very similar, and he is ashamed to think that the man would most certainly have played him if he had been in Tortall at the time. He is equally ashamed to think that Delia of Eldorne is playing him just as easily right now, and that he is knowingly stepping back and _letting _her. Volney has had many hopes and dreams during his life that have been crushed, but Delia simply has complete and utter conviction. It fills him with awe. One day she will leave her tower a free woman – she just doesn't know how, yet. But she jumps at opportunities, never misses a chance, and someday, on her own terms, Delia of Eldorne is going to get to where she wants to be.

By the time he leaves the tower that day (is glad enough to be on flat ground that he wants to hug the ape-guard), Volney is thoroughly, hopelessly in love with her.

o-o-o-o

Volney goes out that night, evading the guards that try to follow him out of habit. He has just enough foresight to go to a bar he doesn't normally frequent, so that when he talks people won't understand more than they're supposed to. Seating himself at the bar, Volney calls for the strongest swill the bartender has in stock and tells him to keep them coming. He knocks back the first and the second before nearly choking. He then stares miserably at the third.

"Y'alright there, son?" the bartender asks, not without some professional concern.

"I'm in love", Volney says glumly.

"That bad, huh? What's your name, son?"

Volney thinks for a moment. "Francis", he says.

The bartender looks skeptical, but doesn't ask questions. "What's she like, then, Francis? Your lady, that is."

Volney is tempted to tell him that his lady's a man, just for the reaction, but the poor man is doing a lovely job replacing his liquor, so he takes pity. "She's terrifying", he finally admits. I don't understand her at all."

"Aye, lad", the man sighs and pours him another shot. "Isn't that the way of it?"

o-o-o-o

Several hours later, Volney makes his way back to the palace. He comes in through one of the servant doors, and while he usually has a very good sense of direction, he can't seem to figure out quite where he is. He follows a very twisted, spinning hallway, leaning on the walls for support until it comes to an end, and he realizes that he is, in fact, not far from (the hallway of useless academia) Numair's rooms. Numair is a wonderful, oblivious friend, who knows about women and who will help him fix his problems without inquiring too deeply. He leans against Numair's door and knocks loudly, calling obscene things in Carthaki about Numair's sleeping habits. Eventually the door opens (Volney nearly falls inside) and a very debauched Numair appears in a sheet. Volney wishes, not for the first time, that his friend weren't solely interested in women, although he supposes it is nice to know he can have a platonic relationship with _someone_. Numair is rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "It's three hours past midnight, you lunatic", he grumbles in an undertone. "Go to bed."

"I _need_ to _talk_ to you", Volney complains, over enunciating his words (exceeding Numair's volume by half).

Numair's eyes open and he takes in the bottle of indeterminate substance in Volney's left hand. He expels a low breath of air and says, "Wait here." Numair disappears inside for a moment, during which there is rustling and voices. He comes through the door again, this time in a loosely tied dressing gown and gently drags Volney to his study where he pushes him towards the loveseat. Numair does something with his hand and the room is lit with the mage's black gift. It makes Volney's white shirt glow purple under his tunic. Numair pours a glass of water and drinks it before sitting down, himself, in the chair opposite.

Volney has spent many an hour in here, drawing everything from plants to human cadavers (the smell of which makes him violently ill), to the system of magic that runs through the body of the Gifted. Numair set up the last by doing something to his head, and it astonished him at first – he wished he could see it at will and imagined the paintings he could do. When it wore off, however, it left him with the worst headache he'd ever had: six days long with nausea and bouts of partial blindness, and none of the healers could do _anything_ but glare at Numair like he was the biggest idiot in Tortall. Volney was inclined to agree and guilted Numair into buying an exceptionally big painting that Volney had always hated, and that was sitting around his studio because no one else liked it either. Volney suspects that Numair gave it away as an under appreciated wedding gift.

Mostly, though, Numair serves as Volney's second opinion on his racier images. If Numair is either interested or shocked, Volney raises the price. Numair has exceedingly good taste in such matters, and so Volney's patrons rarely end up upset at being overcharged. Volney sometimes gives Numair the better drawings for free as a sort of commission. Of course, Numair has no idea of his part in Volney's scheme and this is how Volney likes it.

"Noo-mair", Volney says. "You're pretty good with th'_lay_-dees."

Numair neither confirms nor denies.

"Whadd'you thing c'of me?" Volney asks earnestly.

While Numair is trying to decide how to answer tactfully, Volney continues, swinging his bottle for emphasis.

"… 'Mean, I do alrigh', righ'?" He sighs and takes a swig before nursing his alcohol against his side.

Numair reaches out and pries it away from his fingers. He sniffs curiously at the opening and his eyebrows shoot up. "What are you drinking?"

Volney sighs again. "Dunno – someone ahs ss'_Weasel _gave it t'me. But iss'_oh_-kay, cause I told em 'wassh Franchiss." He laughs, hiccoughs, laughs again.

Numair wonders if Volney is making less sense than usual because he's drunk, or because Numair's tired, but decides it doesn't really matter. He refills his glass of water and passes it over. Volney promptly splashes the couch and his lap with at least half of it before it gets to his mouth.

"… 'Fell in _love_ today", Volney confides, and Numair feels a little bit enlightened. He has never known Volney to actually be in love, and supposes he might be the type to take it this way.

"What's the problem?" Numair asks. He thinks back to Volney's earlier comments "Does she feel the same?"

Volney laughs unhappily. "Can' tell. Probly not, but thass s'leassof it." He stares down at his fingers, magnified by the glass of water; swirls the liquid around once, twice. "Sh'_lies_, y'know," he says conversationally. "All'time, an… 'think sh'migh be crazy. Y'know – _akshully_ crazy." He draws a circle with his finger in the air beside his head. He lifts the glass to his mouth adding into it, "_Andshiss'injail_", before gulping down the remaining water.

Numair shakes his head in wonder. "I don't know how you manage to get yourself into these things. How long is she in there?"

Volney wipes his mouth with the back of his arm. "Indef'nidly."

"Oh", Numair supplies. And then remembers where Volney is working now. "_Oh_."

"Yesh", Volney says, feelingly.

"You poor idiot", Numair says. "Aren't you taking the tortured artist thing a little far?"

"T'snot like I y_asked_ for this. …'lright - ssho I did. Buh not _this_, spessifishly." Volney drags a hand down his face. "… 'Am pathedic."

Numair, Volney notices, sighs in commiseration but doesn't disagree. Volney is beginning to feel distinctly more sober than he did when he came in and wonders suspiciously what was in the water.

"D'you mind 'fie stay here for t'night?" Volney asks, finally. "Don' really wanna fine my way back to my rooms in the dark, an you should go back to w'chever buxssom blonde it is'm keeping you from 'fore she gess jealoush."

Numair snorts, but is kind enough not to say anything. "I'll get you a blanket – and take the big couch. It's dry, at least." He pads off, and by the time he returns, Volney is (snoring loudly) already asleep.

o-o-o-o

o-o-o-o

…And she forges onward, our intrepid beta-reader, across fiery desert sands. With only the clothes on her back and a _Will_ made of _Iron_. (This gets hot, especially as she has No Water.)

Imo is awesomeness personified because on top of the beta job, she found me a self-portrait of Volney (link in my profile) – although not the self-portrait he paints in Fen's _Portrait _(Lyre d'Enfers – _Portrait: Volney Rain_). And if you haven't read that yet, then what are you doing here?

Oh yes… you are waiting to be told that you should also read her reviews, because Imogen's will give you some idea as to what the whole Francis thing is about. I don't share quite the same theory, but I'm not going to mention it ever again, so you can think what you like.

I'm so sorry for the drunken slurring. I really am.

As a point of interest, Numair is currently involved with a certain blonde viol player of the delectable sort.

And because I caved and finally put myself through the mental crisis of writing a multi-chaptered fic, I get to take the opportunity to thank my reviewers (er… Tuathail, because I've already thanked Imo a gazillion times. Ok. Imo, too). Thanks! You are providing me with fiendishly guilty, narcissistic pleasure - Volney isn't me, but he _is_ probably the closest I will ever get to writing myself into a fic. All the praise is absolutely going to my head (and filling up the space formerly occupied by my brain).

Sally (is technically dead.)


	3. Like moths to a flame

_This is a long time in coming. Happy Birthday, Imo._

o-o-o-o

o-o-o-o

The Talented Volney Rain, Part 3

o-o-o-o

o-o-o-o

Volney wakes up and realizes that one, he smells like the rank shoe of a foot-soldier and that two, he is on a couch. More specifically, he is on the couch in Numair's study, and Numair is pottering about, muttering under his breath in some arcane language that was likely never meant to be spoken in the first place. Volney would ask exactly what Numair is doing, except he's made that mistake before and it resulted in a very long, very boring lecture that Volney only half understood but couldn't quite seem to end.

Besides, when he forces open bleary eyes, he can see that Numair is watering plants.

Volney's mouth feels disgusting, and his tongue is thick and hard to control as he grinds out the word, "Water," in a tone he hopes indicates that he would like some. He clears his throat.

Numair's head swings around, making him look surprisingly like a horse. "So," he says. "You're awake at last. How are you feeling?"

Taking a moment to gingerly rotate his head, Volney is shocked to find that he's not too bad, actually. "Fine," he says, surprised. He's never been very good first thing in the morning, even when he hasn't been binge-drinking the night before.

He answers _no_ to Numair's follow-up questions about headaches and nausea and gets up to look for the water he knows is around here somewhere. Numair hands him an empty specimen jar and pours water into it from his watering can. Volney grimaces at the drink, glares stonily at Numair, and gives in to his thirst, chugging it down.

It's at this time that Volney realizes the thing that's been bothering him since he's woken up: the light's wrong. "What time is it?" he asks.

"It's a little past mid-day," Numair supplies.

Volney is instantly furious. "Why didn't you wake me up??" he demands. He goes into a mild panic and sits down to yank his boots on – maybe Numair took them off, because he doesn't remember accomplishing this task, himself.

Numair blinks, bewildered. "I was observing the effects of the detoxifier I added to your drink last night." Volney's eyes bug out, so Numair continues. "You would have slept this late, anyhow, given how drunk you were. At least you're not sick."

"You…! I can't believe…!" Volney sputters. His jaw juts forward. "What have I told you, you illegitimate, misbegotten son of the town greeting committee, about using me as a test subject for your experiments?"

Numair looks up, puzzled. "How did you know my mother was a town greeter?"

Volney's mouth hangs open in stunned silence.

"What's wrong with that?" Numair asks guardedly. "It's a common practice in Tyra."

Tears form at the corners of Volney's eyes and he emits a high-pitched whine.

With belated concern, Numair enquires: "… Are you alright? That wasn't supposed to happen. Wait, are you laughing? What's so funny? I don't get -- oh. Ooooh. That's not…! That's my mother you're talking about! Stop it, you twit. Ok, out. Out!"

Numair drags him bodily outside and locks the door on him. The rest of Volney's significantly shortened day continues in the manner of a grand farce, in that it is not really funny.

o-o-o-o

Volney misses most of his appointments for the day. He misses his appointment with Delia. He is late for the remaining few he doesn't cancel.

He gets cornered into attending a dinner party he very much would not like to attend by Her Majesty, who has obviously heard about his latest endeavour and is even more obviously furious about it (which she makes clear by being far more polite than usual). When he gets to his rooms, he finds an elegantly scripted note from His Majesty that says merely, "She knows. -HRM."

He drowns the thing in a cup of paint thinner and then fishes it out (staining his shirt with muddy red paint in the process) and throws it on the fire. The sudden burst of flames swallows it whole, but it smells horribly.

o-o-o-o

The dinner party is about as awful as dicing with the Hag. Volney gives himself poor chance of surviving the night.

The setup is this: Volney is seated beside a mother and her extremely eligible daughter. The knight directly across the table is very much in love with the girl. Several elegantly carved chairs up – within prime hearing distance – sits the Queen.

To amuse himself, and to avoid any conversation or eye contact with the Queen (and more importantly, to make her regret this dinner forever), Volney flirts shamelessly with the daughter. He keeps it up until the second course is brought and he realizes his epic failure to firmly grasp the situation, which is that the mother did not like the increasingly jealous knight's prospects and is now considering Volney Rain, successful artist and friend to the throne, as a suitable potential son-in-law. By this time, it's too late to check his behaviour. The fuming knight wants to kill him, the stupid girl is fawning over him, and the mother – Volney is pretty sure she's propositioning him as well as trying to marry him off to her daughter. It's disturbing to say the least. He can not seem to get away, and is forced to sit through dessert and the after party – which he only manages to endure by drinking as heavily as he can before the Queen notices and cuts him off. She's smiling, of course – all teeth.

o-o-o-o

Unpleasantly early the next morning, in what one could term a desperate move, yesterday's lovesick knight seeks him out. Or rather, pounds on Volney's door until he wakes up, trips and sways half-blind with sleep over the obstacles presented by his floor (shoes, pants, shin-height table, canvas stretcher, raised floor tiles, wine bottle) and fumbles it open. Further indignities, the knight slaps him. With a glove.

_Ow,_ thinks Volney reproachfully, holding his stinging cheek. He says it out loud, feeling it bears repeating: "Ow!"

"Quiet, knave!" proclaims the knight. "I, Larsen of Marti's Hill, challenge thee to a duel! Name thy time and place."

Volney peers at him incredulously. "No," he says. He leans out the doorway to look down the hall, and yes, apparently other people can see this too: an older couple buying a half-decent landscape from one of his rivals and a couple of servants, all projecting varying degrees of astonishment, embarrassment and smug satisfaction.

"Art thou a man?" the knight bellows. "Name thy—"

"—time and place, yes I heard you. Thee. Not possible. Please stop yelling."

"But…" the knight deflates. "Why not?" Possibly his lower lip trembles.

"Look—," Volney sighs inwardly. "This is about that girl, right? The one at dinner? What's her name again?"

"I cannot believe that you supped with the most beautiful girl in the world and yet cannot remember that her name is _Lady Mariel_ of _Setton's Dale_. Myself, I can not banish it from my mind. It is understandable – nay expected – that you would fall for her charms, Master Rain, but you are no good for her. My heart beats for Mariel alone, and I will fight 'til my last breath to keep you from her."

"No fighting." Volney reiterates. "Gods. Just… come inside and we can talk about this without involving my neighbours."

Volney gestures the knight forward, gently but firmly shuts the door, and sinks gingerly into the most comfortable chair he owns. He opens what he (fruitlessly) hopes will be their brief chat by stating brusquely that he is not a knight and therefore does not fight duels. Neither does he foresee this changing at any point in the future. What he can do, however, is to reassure the good Sir Larsen that his intentions towards the Lady Mariel are entirely non-existent; he is secretly in love with another. Sir Larsen, believing himself in the presence of a kindred soul, accepts this willingly and begins to unload his troubles. In a blubbering monologue, filled with heavy handed metaphor and rambling anecdote, Sir Larsen reveals the heart of the matter: he is afeared that Lady Mariel's affections towards him are waning.

"Oh?" Volney asks, not actually interested. "And what have you done to win her back?"

"I have duelled all her other suitors." Sir Larsen declares pointedly.

"Right. Did she ask you to?"

"Of course not! She did not have to! In fact, she protested each time, wishing to spare the other gentlemen the shame. Lady Mariel is truly the sweetest soul - but her honour must be protected from those who are not worthy of her."

Volney grips his throbbing forehead. Where to start, he wonders?

"_Stop _duelling," he decides eventually. "It makes her think of you as that jealous hot-head she can't take out in public. Try a Big Romantic Gesture instead – expensive gifts or public declarations of love. Something to convince her you're actually interested in her instead of just interested in keeping others away from her." Sometimes his diplomacy astounds him.

Sir Larsen frowns thoughtfully. It appears uncomfortable.

"Look," says Volney, hardly able to believe his next words. He would _murder _to be left in peace right now. "Give me a day or two and I will help you come up with something more specific."

"You will?"

"Yes," Volney sighs. "Against my better judgement. Now run along. I have many important things to do today."

Sir Larsen holds his hand out and they engage in some manly handshaking that makes the floor wobble dangerously under Volney's feet before the knight makes his exit. Volney winces as the door slams shut ("…Sorry!" calls Larsen), sending the wine bottle in a loud spin across his floor. He thinks about climbing the uneven tower stairs and has to fight off a bout of nausea. It seems he isn't going to make it to see Delia again today either.

"Fine. Fine!" Volney rails (quietly) against the Gods, who clearly have it out for him. "By Mithros' muscled man-tits I will give up the drink! No more wine, no more pale ale, no more mead fit for you but obviously not me. Hear me?" There is a big silence.

"Right," Volney says, "Okay. Now I'm going to paint." And finally stops making an ass of himself.

Volney finishes all the rest of his outstanding commissions that night, working punishingly late to the soft glow of wall fixtures and flickering candles. Normally, the light conditions would be enough to make him fume, but tonight it doesn't seem to matter, as long as he can work.

o-o-o-o

It is just past midday when Volney, operating with little to no sleep, braves the tower steps to pay Delia a visit. She rewards his efforts with a practical demonstration of "waned affections." He apologizes for not coming sooner, unaware that they were keeping to an apparently rigid schedule. This does very little to mollify her (unsurprisingly) – "You could have sent a message at the very least," she sniffs.

They begin, Delia settling into her chosen pose. Only nothing's right – she's polite and quiet and sitting too stiffly and holding her limbs unnaturally, and it's clear that she's angry at him, and what is her problem, Volney wonders? So he didn't show up on the day he said he would. It's not as though she's got anywhere else to be.

…And unfortunately he might have just said that out loud.

He can see Delia's cold fury written plainly in every line of her body, so before she can tell him to get out (and never come back), Volney makes his excuses and beats a hasty retreat. He'll make it up to her. Today just isn't a good day.

She looks as frigid as humanly possible as she says, "Until the next time, then, _Master Rain_, whenever it is you should deign to grant the honour of your company."

o-o-o-o

Now that he also has a vested interest in wooing _himself_ back into the good graces of a lady, Volney applies himself wholeheartedly to the task of what he's calling 'Larsen's Mariel Problem.' He believes he can accomplish both at once.

He finds Sir Larsen (who is relieved that Volney has remembered his plight) and instructs him to suggest a concert series in the courtyard to the Royal Music Director.

"Why the courtyard?" Larsen enquires dubiously. "Aren't outdoor concerts usually held in the gardens?"

"Yes, that is the _usual_ venue," Volney replies derisively, "but we are trying for something _unusual_. If it's in the courtyard, all the courtiers can gather around for lunch and the knights can take a break from duelling or polishing their shiny weapons, or whatever it is you do, and the servants will stop to listen and it will create the appropriate air of joviality and well being that we are looking for. And then you can lead Lady Mariel off under the arch to sing to her while the orchestra plays and we can have someone dump a couple hundred petals off the second floor balcony and it will appear to her as though your very casual seeming request that she accompany is in fact very specifically planned for her benefit. It will make her feel special."

Thankfully, Larsen seems enlightened and Volney keeps to himself the part where the courtyard is close enough to see from the tower and the gardens are not. He spreads the word about the palace so that the concert will be well attended.

And after that, it's almost easy – everything actually goes as planned.

Volney sits and draws the musicians and the audience and is pleasant and delightful and begs for popular dance tunes every time the Music Director takes requests. And when it comes time for Sir Larsen to express his love for his fair maiden, she laughs and weeps and clings delightedly to him and Volney draws that, too. He is pretty sure that this scene will suffice as a wedding commission, should one be requested. As soon as the crowd disperses, he gathers up his sheaf of papers and starts climbing stairs. He may or may not be whistling a jaunty tune.

o-o-o-o

Delia's flushed - barely containing her delight (obviously she's been dancing, Volney congratulates himself). Her glare for the guard is more habitual than anything.

"The music!" she starts. "You were whistling…. They don't usually have concerts in the courtyard. Was that--?"

"Was that what?" He can't resist.

"Don't play with me. Did you?

"Did I… know that in the lower city they sing some truly shocking lyrics to that charming dance tune? It's about this scandalous love affair between a court poet and a prin--."

"Volney," she says, exasperated.

"Or did you perhaps mean did I arrange for a chamber orchestra to play almost directly under your window for the rest of the summer?"

She shrieks and jumps on him, laughing as he spins her like a little girl. He sets her down and she crushes herself back into him. He has exactly two seconds to register her lips pressed soft and firm against his before she's shoving him away. He looks after her, bewildered.

"What the…?"

The door swings open and Delia's guard shoulders through, hand resting significantly on his baton. _...Oh._

"Everything all right in here?"

"Yes," Delia snaps. "You can go."

"I heard some screaming."

"I wouldn't exactly call it screaming…," Volney hems, trying to buy time so he can come up with a stupid line of rationale, like: "It was just a… dramatic re-enactment. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about."

He can see the wheels turning as the guard processes this information. "Planning on many more of these dramatic re-enwhatsis?"

"Um," says Volney helpfully. "Maybe a couple," he says, very carefully not looking at Delia's face. "Hard to --" oh, by the Goddess' mortal sons, _why not_? "Actually, let's err on the side of caution and say many. _Very _many."

The guard harrumphs and looks back and forth between their faces. Volney, increasingly agitated (he wouldn't buy the flimsy excuse he is trying to sell either), feels he must do something to help this situation along. He decides belittlement is the way to go:

"Look, man, my work is very experimental. I am trying many new things," Volney re- iterates using smaller words. "So unless one of us actually shouts 'Help me, -- what's your name?"

"Haverssam. Sir," the guard says grudgingly.

"Right, unless one of us shouts specifically for you, Haverssam, by name, you will stay at your post on the landing, do I make myself clear? None of this interrupting, or I will never get anything done."

"I'll have to report this," Haverssam grumbles, and leaves.

"Huh." Volney exhales shakily. "I guess we're going for something like a history painting now. Maybe we should--" he is about to say "do some work," but Delia is _right there_. She reaches her hand round the back of his neck and pulls him down to her for an insistent kiss that picks up where the last one left off. While she rakes her fingers through his hair, his hands find her collarbone, the ridge of her spine, the curve of her waist; he marvels at how tiny and delicate she feels leaning against him - completely at odds with the force of her personality. The sharp scrape of her teeth startles him into drawing breath. She soothes the hurt with her tongue and licks, sucks her way into his open mouth, seemingly intent on devouring him (_but Gods, what a way to go, _Volney can't help thinking). And just like that, it's over, except for how they're staring at each other's darkened eyes and swollen lips, and sharing short gasps of air, and maybe - _maybe_ it might start again.

"Uh," Volney says, suave at all times.

Delia smiles, amused, and takes a tiny step back. "Now teach me the dance to your song with the dirty lyrics," she says.

o-o-o-o


End file.
